


The voice in my head says you hate me

by WhatATime



Series: frisky little flash (shorter fics) [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Good Bro Dick Grayson, Good Older Sibling Dick Grayson, Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Todd Angst, Jason Todd Feels, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd Needs A Hug, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-21 13:34:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21075722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatATime/pseuds/WhatATime
Summary: An injured Jason Todd wanders into Dick Grayson's apartment early one morning.





	The voice in my head says you hate me

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go!

Jason takes his shoes off at the door so that he doesn’t dirty the carpet. He can see the kitchen from the door. He can see a ghost sitting on the island, a BPD windbreaker, a pack of gum. Jason goes to the living room in front of the kitchen and steals a closed bottle of lemon-lime soda.

There are freshly painted canvases leaned against the walls and hanging (Damian’s doing, probably). None of them are pictures. He wishes they were people, little children or flowers or a trimmed house. He doesn’t know what the fifteen lines mean or why the brushstrokes are so heavy. Maybe the kid’s wrist was hurting, or maybe… 

He pours the soda into the empty glass he keeps in the lower portion of Dick’s coffee table, his cup. He swallows hard. The soda burns. It’s as fresh as the cuts on his knees. There are dried brown tracks on his shins. The nail of his index finger flakes them off, but that doesn’t help the gashes that continue to gush.

Jason wants to get a second opinion before he takes iodine to it, but he’s long pushed his second self away in favor of his own thoughts and will. So, he drags his unscathed socks to the bathroom and finds the iodine and cotton balls and sits on the toilet lid.

Jason’s knees sizzle, and the damaged skin tears itself further from its home. They thump against the cold air of the bathroom and chastise him. I’m sorry, Jason says.

What? Dick appears in the doorway. One arm is pulled off-screen. Jason thinks it’s Damian for a minute, but it could be Tim, Babs. All he knows is that Dick’s in uniform sans his domino and grinning for no reason. What’re you doing here, Jay?

My knees are cut. Jason gently pats his reeling wounds with a cotton ball.

How’d you cut them?

Jason shakes his head. He won’t be a child tonight. He’s too old to be a child. He needs to straighten his posture and deepen his voice and slip out before Dick figures out something is more wrong than usual. Jason can’t seem to grow up fast enough.

Dick’s hand falls back to his side. He comes and kneels beside Jason. He rests one hand below Jason’s right thigh and the other hovers over his kneecaps. You weren’t on the comms tonight. He stretches over to the nearest drawer and opens it. He recovers a tube of Neosporin and proceeds to slather it over Jason’s wounds.

It feels like he’s being burnt. It feels as if a million tiny spikes writhe in an around his wound. It feels wonderful in a masochistic way. The sort of way Jason feels like being. He twitches his leg to ruin Dick’s accuracy and grow the burn, the pain. The mystery of it isn’t intriguing enough for Jason’s mind, so he doesn’t bother extrapolating theories from the fact that it feels wonderful.

So.

_ One. Two. _

Who’s in the other room?

Tim’s about to go. He’s just here for a file I stole and didn’t return fast enough. The kid should just go digital, already. Then I could leave my notes there. Dick returns the Neosporin to its place and begins screwing the cap on the iodine.

Oh. 

Yeah.

  
  
  


Think I’ll make it to thirty?

Dick stops midway through setting the brown bottle in the cabinet above the sink. 

Jason grins, turns his focus to assuagement. I mean, none of us technically has.

Morbid much?

Thoughtful. He likes to think he’s being thoughtful anyway.

There’s a difference in broad philosophy and narrow-minded nihilism.

I guess.

Dick rolls his eyes as he stands. You’re all set.

I didn’t need your help, Jason says.

I know. Dick turns to leave, but he swivels around just a quickly, eyebrow quirked. Khakis?

Someone once told me they’re certified.

Hm, Dick remarks quietly, leaving.

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe I'll feel like quotation marks next time.
> 
> Leave a comment to let me know what you thought about the story. :-)


End file.
